


(to each) ad quod damnum

by apocryphiend (sweet_juju_magumbo)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Haha Sorry, M/M, Mention of characters that have sadly been lost, Or don't, basically me rambling, haha look at me trying to use a latin term as a title, haha what can sparrows hold anyway, i love Dean a lot really i do, indulge me here people, me awkwardly experimenting with style, s11ep03 coda-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_juju_magumbo/pseuds/apocryphiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has always been good at holding things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(to each) ad quod damnum

Dean has always been good at holding things.

He has good hands for it. Wide hands. Strong, steady hands.

His hands are one of the few things John gave him that don’t make Dean curse his name.

He has held a lot of things in these hands. He held Sam the night their world went up in smoke, all those years ago. He held knives before he ever really held a book. He held, tightly, to the steering wheel of the Impala (with hands he made sure weren’t sticky) when his dad wasn’t looking, and he’d felt her holding, too. The first time he’d been held since Mary died.

Dean has held a lot of bottles and a lot of women and a lot of guns and blood and shovels and cold, broken bodies and a lot of ugly things. Too many goddamn ugly things to mention.

It’s not just his hands that hold, though.

His shoulders hold more than he thought possible. A lot of weight, a lot of history. His name. God, his name. He doesn’t like to think about what his name holds anymore. Not when he has seen the fear, sharp and bright and jutting like broken glass in the eyes of others, when he has seen their fear and smiled.

His heart has held many things. Holds many things. His heart is not like his hands, though, it is too weak. Too small.The sparrow that has flown itself into the cage, frenzied and wretched. It flies and flies and flies, nowhere, but stays aloft. It holds.

Dean holds his mother in his heart like a child holds a crystal to the light, holds her high and dear and precious to watch the color of her memory dance across the walls. The crystal grows cloudy with each passing year, despite how fiercely he holds.

He’d held John for some time, stubbornly, like a river stone, flat and weighty in his palm. He’d refused to throw it, to send it streaking across silent waters, afraid that after, when the water stilled, it would be his father’s eyes looking back at him rather than his own, unmoved. But somewhere, he can’t remember quite when, he had pulled that stone out, sent it skimming, and watched it sink. Irretrievable. A sad, small relief.

Oh, Dean’s skittish heart had held so very many things. He’d held onto that little dimple in Cassie’s smile. Lisa’s raven hair and careful words, Ben’s bed head and impeccable taste. And Charlie’s awful graphic tees and computer lingo and chirpiness. And Bobby’s filthy baseball caps and sandpaper sympathy and wisdom that flowed like whiskey. And Ellen’s scowl and Jo’s temper and Kevin’s nervous laughter and Benny’s bourbon drawl and -

Some things, some people, Dean held longer than others.

He has held Sammy the longest, of course. He will always hold Sam, no matter how much it is sometimes like holding hot coals, stirring them, to make sure they do not flicker out. No matter how much it is sometimes scrambling for the tail end of a dream even as he is waking. No matter how much he is scorching his fingertips on the edge of the sun.

Dean wants to hold Cas, too. Thinks that maybe he already has, before. Or, tried, anyway. Or maybe he never did, or never tried, or maybe Cas did the holding or -

He can’t tell, anymore. Or ever, really.

But he wants to, now, if Cas will let him. 

Dean’s sparrow heart would him so closely. Would hold Cas like a taste of sky. Like the first biting breath of winter. Tenderly. Greedily. Hungrily.

Yes. Dean could hold Cas now, he’s sure of it. Things were never right before, never ready. They were never in the right moment. And maybe they aren’t now either, but Dean can feel it. He will wait. He will hold. 

Dean has always been particularly good at holding pain, too. 

So when Cas leans across the table, holds his repentance in that healing hand, Dean refuses. He will hold this pain. It’s so small, really, next to all of the other pain he has held, that he holds. He’ll hold his broken skin and broken blood and the ugly yellow and purple evidence of his wrongdoings. It is so small a penance. 

Too small a penance. Dean knows his heart will never find its way out of the cage he has built himself into. He knew where the exit was, once, he thinks. He had known where to find it. But for so long, now, the bars have grown heavier and heavier with all the hurt he has caused in his life. These bars are built of guilt too horrible to be broken. 

He knows, too, that he cannot deserve, truly, to hold the beautiful things in his heart that he does. He cannot deserve the memories, the grasps of happiness that he holds. But Dean is weak. He is selfish. So he will hold on to the good that he has seen and that he has known. He will keep hold of his brother. He will hold Cas.

First, he’ll hold this little pain. 

He’s held worse. He’ll hold better.

He’ll hold so much better, soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a despicable person and I'm not writing the things I've promised to write, but I will. Eventually. I had this little thing on the brain and had to try something a little different. Profuse thanks to anyone who made it through my rambling. <3


End file.
